In the dimly lit room, all I can taste is the shallow smokiness of your breath in the space between an exposed shoulder blade and my earlobe . . . I wonder if this might be what freedom feels like.
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
It's funny how I started this all out saying things would not happen, moments would not escape my grasp, I wouldn't lose myself once the stale air hit my skin. I started out saying all of these things - so sure I was in control, so sure I knew what I was doing - seeing you, again, and ignoring the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. I cannot say no to you, have never been able to say no to you, but here I stand - stomach beneath my feet, shredded pieces of a heart in my hands - no, no, no, no. . .
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
It started innocently enough; it always does, though, doesn't it? Quick, biting comments - picking at each other for the sake of passing words into the air in between us - for the sake of keeping air in between us. And what were you thinking in those silent moments before you put your mouth on mine? That you no longer wanted that unnecessary air standing guard? That you no longer saw any reason to pick at me because you simply wanted to be at me? Because I might have wanted the same things - before and in the moments of its existence - but here I stand - questions firing with the precision of a gun salute at a funeral. Maybe that's what this is - a funeral . . .
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
In the moments after, I recall your hand; it had found the small of my back and then slowly curled itself around my own hand once it had found it. Is that what coming home should feel like? There was no noise in the darkness - only your swift whispers, more like thoughts, and yet - I heard it. I heard them. I heard you. I think everything was heard in that time - every word bustling in and out of our memories; yes, everything was heard but what my heart knew at its very core.
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. But you are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. But you are not my redemption.
I decide I have you figured out - finally after all these years - and then you say something about my eyes. You say something about my eyes that is so raw and open it couldn't possibly be a fallacy. Where are you trying to fit me, I want to ask. Just what shelf, exactly, am I to rest upon? And then I remember that resting was never really a strong suit of ours - we believed only weakness to be in the resting.
But you are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out. You are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room. You are not my redemption.
I wonder if you're consumed by this in the same way I am - does it stutter your speech? Does it come near to infiltrating all your interactions? Can you breathe?
You are not the sun on my face, warming me from the inside out . . .
I don't think I ever permitted myself to bury this - reaction - between you and me. There was no mourning march, no dirt thrown over a box that once held a soul impassioned. This has never been buried - it just gets shoved to the side only to be brought back to life every "solitary" time we are eye to eye. There has been no burial.
You are not the aching hymn I sing in the quiet of an empty room . . .
How are you still so gentle? After the fires you've passed through? And how am I so open to it? After being burnt? We are completely separate and then we are in proximity and then we are too close for comfort. But there is comfort - in the separation, the proximity, the ways in which we cannot avoid each other. You should not be this comfort.
You are not my redemption . . .
It's strange - how in a seconds time I can be in the darkness of those four walls, sensing your movement before it becomes an action, matching your breathing chest rise to chest fall. In just one second I can describe the smell of your skin - it's salty, with hints of lemon, and the deep inescapable truth that you are no longer that boy I thought I knew once, but a man I may never be familiar with. I'd like to think you think of me as a wine - a biting heat to swerve a bad day better. But who really knows if you think of me at all.
You are not . . .
Ain't no talking to this man . . .
We are grown now - and what will that ever mean for either of us when we are making decisions like young kids? I just know one thing and it is the same as what I knew then - I cannot say no to you - I've never been able to say no to you. And in that dark room - I swear I became light.
But, you are not my redemption.
No comments:
Post a Comment